"No cat out of its first fur was ever deceived by appearances, unlike human beings, who seem to enjoy it."
-The Cat, The Last Unicorn

soundtrack:
"Every kind of love, or at least my kind of love
Must be an imaginary love to start with
Guess that can explain the rain, waiting
walking game
Schubert broke my brain to start with
Hoped to look at you in a cab
Back of your head across my lap
Oh what grace, green back seat against the
red of your face
Hoped to look at you in any old grand hotel
Drunken demands gave way to reservations
Oh what a room, champagne brings such happy
faces, happy faces"
-Rufus Wainwright, "Imaginary Love"

david lynch:
FRANK'S GAS MASK - WHICH OF COURSE I USE EACH WEEKEND
-David Lynch, when asked if he'd snagged any props from his films; www.davidlynch.com

leaves:It was an idyllic kind of setting and a very unlikely place to be put aside for an orgy. But it was, and the outlaws set about occupying it like a victorious army.
-Hunter S. Thompson, Hell's Angels: A Strange and Terrible Saga

"A sweaty salute to aging. In a wee four months, I will be leaving the devil-may-care twenties behind for the bittersweet cardigan and minivan years known as the thirty-somethings. I am not ready. I am not fucking ready! Stay gold, Pony Boy. Gone are the days of scorpion bowl binge drinking and whoopie pie munchies. Good times. Ethel? Pass me the jar of Revitalift when you're done with it. Im telling a story over here. Earl gray, no milk. Lactose, you know."
-rebecca, sweat flavored gummi

the rabbit:
"(2)paces in circles around apartment, wondering whether to a) make inspiring but melancholy mix CD, b) walk to 7-11 for nachos and cola squishy, c) write 10 more pages of novel without consulting now-oppressive and illegible outline thingy, or d) sit in place on couch, daydreaming about Britney Spears's torso until weak with hunger, necessitating crawling on hands and knees to fridge, where sliced jarlsberg and sweet pickles wait in joyful hope for the coming of their savior."
-rabbit, on her own kind of OCD, the rabbit blog

"But it's perfectly normal at night"Wednesday, April 24, 2002
12:09 a.m.
You know those songs that for a unique set of reasons make you bloated with glee? So overwhelmed with giddiness that your lips, despite themselves, curl ever upward and outward until you are beaming stupidly to yourself? It's the first time you've heard it and you can't believe you've only just now discovered this perfect diddy...and on the fucking radio, no less.

TodayTuesday, April 23, 2002
09:05 a.m.
You can thank a botched cable connection (still unfixed), a full week and my being rather uninspired for my lack of updates. However, my rut has run its course and I feel a shitstorm of inspiration coming on. Brace yourself (considering the Comcast people hurry the hell up and get my internet connection humming again).

And so, I had to post, secretly and quickly, from work in order to congratulate Keith of modestneeds.org on his successful interview with Al. He was featured on CNN too.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes.Wednesday, April 17, 2002
12:32 p.m.Apt. 121, the weblog, has gone the way of the Dodo. *Takes a hearty swig off a 40 of Schlitz Malt Liquor then pours it onto the dusty ground--one for me, and one for my homie* Seems now Mattress' focus is strictly on design.
And sex, drugs and rock and roll.

Tomorrow I'll be checking out his band Aireline at Exit/In in Nashville. All the cool kids have seen them already, and now they're letting the geeks in.

I've spoken with Matt about designing a site for me. I dislike hosting my weblog on pitas.com because there are so many restrictions. In order to archive a page, you must start a new one, fresh, rather than have the oldest entry drop off the bottom of the page like with Blogger. And it is difficult for people to find you at a subdomain (although I am the second result in Google for a search on "Brittney"). That, somewhat limited design options and the stigma attatched to residing at a free hosting site has got me itching for a move. And since my design sense is admittedly and decidedly limited, I thought I'd give a professional a shot to "design me." I think, when and if I ask him to do it, I'll give him free reign. I only ask that he design a site that is representative of what goes on here. Though, who the fuck knows what *that* is, so the design may border on psychedelic.

My only hesitation lies in my fear that no one will be able to find me. The traffic Misc., Etc. gets each day has finally gotten to a respectable level: What if I move and once a reader realizes I'm no longer here, she gives up? Of course, a redirect to the new page would solve that little dilemma, but I worry. Constantly. I constantly worry needlessly. What if nobody likes my new place? What if the link-throughs from my few but proud referrers cease due to a smattering of broken links. Is it considered uncouth to contact your referrers to notify them of the url change? This answer wasn't in my blog+etiquette search.

I think I am going to do it though. Just think, a shiny new site with my very own domain name. It'll be like the pony I never got.

I must come up with a name. Something easy to spell, easy to remember and fitting. And since a few dozen heads are better than one, I'm taking suggestions. It's really simple. Just head over to register.com and check to see if your name idea is available (.com, .org, or .net--I don't care. Although, I probably would be less likely to take whateva.net, of there is already a whateva.com--especially if it is a personal page.). Just quickly leave your domain name idea here, and I'll pick my favorite. Or maybe I'll set up a poll and let people vote. Obviously, I will retain the power to veto any choice made by the people.
Think of it as a contest in the tradition of the new design. Hey everybody, "Define me!" Think of it as a contest created by The Laziest Girl Alive. Or rather, The Most Absolutely Out Of Ideas Girl Alive. Should there be a prize? Surely so. While you all are coming up with names, I'll come up with prize ideas.

They say all the truly original domain names are already taken. Here's your oppurtunity to prove them wrong (because I sure can't).

Also of note: I added to options in the navigate section at right for visitors to suggest a book or a movie. I thought it would be an excellent way for me to get exposure to culture I might not otherwise have experienced. It might also become a mini-forum of discussion on the items recommended. Which would be fun, wouldn't it?

The commentary is hysterical and the participants unwaivering. That's what I call entertainment!
(Best line: A leaking face. Apparently Tabasco loosens up a few gaskets. Bob's head juice is on the move.)

This ain't Harry PotterSunday, April 14, 2002
10:26 p.m.
I read the following sentence from George Berkeley's The Principles of Human Knowledge several times (homework, lest you began feeling inadequate at your own pleasure reading selections), but the puddle of letters and punctuation still make no sense.

But, though we might possibly have all our sensations without them, yet perhaps it may be thought easier to conceive and explain the manner of their production, by supposing external bodies in their likeness rather than otherwise; and so it might be at least probable that there are such things that excite their ideas in our minds.

About a boy.Wednesday, April 10, 2002
06:42 p.m.
Browsing the Yearbook Update has get me all weepy and nostalgic for high school. Unlike most everybody, I really liked high school. I got a certificate for perfect attendance because school was enjoyable for me, and there is only one good explanation for that.
I was a nerd.

But I wasn't a socially outcast, ridiculed dork because I had a few redeeming qualities. For instance, my friends were cool, for the most part, so that would confuse people, leading them to believe that I might be cool as well.

And I was a cheerleader. Sad but true, my friends. Thirty pounds and nearly ten years ago (*ouch*) I flipped, spun and spirit-fingered my way through nearly two years in that pleated skirt, but quit my junior year because I never got over my ruthless fear of a back handspring (or more specifically, having my face bashed into the gym floor by the weight of my body after my arms collapsed). So by the universal code of high school popularity, I wasn't considered a complete dork.

But truth be told, I was a serious geek. I was incredibly uptight, arrogant to mask my ignorance, self-absorbed and a total stick-in-the-mud. I never had even the smallest sip of the sweetest wine cooler until I was 17, and even then never finished one by myself. I thought cigarettes were vile, and talk of marijuana at my school nearly blew my mind.

As a singer-dancer type, I signed up for the PRIDE team, (affiliated with the D.A.R.E. drug-prevention program) a group of artsy high schoolers who perform songs, skits and dance routines for elementary school kids teaching them the dangers of drugs. [The biggest problem with this program in retrospect is that the children are taught that all drugs, including caffiene, nictoine, and marijuana, are equally harmful. No distinctions were made between smoking crack or a cigarette. Actually, there was no information about drugs given at all, except that they will harm and kill. One must take issue with the error in judgement here, as ignorance rarely leads us in the right direction--and just one of the reasons the D.A.R.E. program didn't work. But, I digress...]

This is dorky, no?

And if it takes more convincing, I'll briefly mention the Junior Classical League convention where I wore a tunica.

Anyway, I've e-mailed the webmaster in hopes of getting to submit to the Yearbook Update. And so I grabbed the two yearbooks I bought and cracked open their dusty covers. I've scanned these books several dozen times, pinning faces to names or to laugh at everyone's hair. But I rarely read the notes and signatures.

I read every last one this evening and I became flushed with memories. Just a few years ago I'd have mocked the cliched sentence fragments, if only in my head, but tonight, cloaked in sincerity, I sat smiling through splashes of tears.

The signature (what *do* you call the letter-like dedications penned in yearbooks?) that follows is from Aaron. Aaron was the boy who stirred in me something profound. We never officially dated (though there was date-oriented activity involved), but our attraction to one another was apparent to everyone, most of all ourselves. We were as much alike as we were different, the paradox that kept us from ever realizing any possible potential.

Aaron was a smart-ass who was more smart, less ass. And while it was evident that he and I would always have this wildly inexplicable something-else, we mostly made each other laugh.
He wrote this in our senior yearbook, in red ink and all capital letters:

Brittney,

It kinda seems like after twelve years I should know what to write in these things. I guess I am just a slow learner. Well, I've known you for about 2 years now and it just keeps getting better, you know? I've been closer to you than I have anyone before, I guess, and I'm glad it was you. I don't think we ever really got into a fight. If you'd decided to go out with me our sophomore year, I bet we'd still be going out. No sense in dwelling on the past, though. How do you feel about leaving school? I guess I have mixed emotions. I can't wait til Florida, though. I'll be on the beach all day (and maybe all night, too). Well, I don't guess I can B.S. much more, so this is about all I can write. I know you're going to do something great with your life. Make sure you come to the reunions and stuff. Give me a call anytime you are looking for something to do--I am sure I'll be able to come up with something. Take the road less traveled, and maybe our roads will cross. Until then, take care and be happy.

Love,
Aaron

P.S. Who cares about women's rights?

I wonder why this is one of the most touching things anyone has ever written me.

1. Pay particular attention to the beginning of the film: at least two clues are revealed before the credits.
2. Notice appearances of the red lampshade.
3. Can you hear the title of the film that Adam Kesher is audutioning actresses for? Is it mentioned again?
4. An accident is a terrrible event...notice the location of the event.
5. Who gives a key, and why?
6. Notice the robe, the ashtray, the coffee cup.
7. What is felt, realized and gathered at the club Silencio?
8. Did talent alone help Camilla?
9. Note the occurances surrounding the man behind Winkies.
10. Where is Aunt Ruth?

Congratulations, you could have already won!Sunday, April 7, 2002
04:23 p.m.
I'll be at work when Misc., Etc. gets its 10,000th hit.
But Number 10,000, whoever you may be, do something nice for yourself today. Buy a cup of coffee. Have another cocktail, although you've already had too many, I assure you. Get someone to tickle you mercilessly.

IllustrationSaturday, April 6, 2002
02:08 p.m.
He caught me there, by the door. All at once, he appeared, grinning, as if he'd materialized, a product of sweat and nerves. His hand snaked around my wrist, cold and dry, and I found it hard to remain calm.

Later, much later, he'll be watching me from the street.Unaware, my mood will shift, my breath will grow hot and he'll understand just why not.

I'd order coffee--black, and hot!Friday, April 5, 2002
03:16 p.m.
Spent the morning chatting with Lynch, which is always a lovely way to start a day. Tonight they will be announcing the winner of Lunch with Lynch, a contest selecting a winner to fly to LA for lunch at Bob's Big Boy with the Man. I don't think I can fully conceptualize what I might do if I were to win. I might blow out something. Get a rash.
I don't believe in much, but I am okay with idol worship.

The calendar came out well, I think. You can download it here if you want. (1.16 MB)

Aunt Vicky's phat pad: Next up on CribsMonday, April 1, 2002
02:10 a.m.Him: My aunt Vicki, the one with the brand new boob job, will not only have her 1990 Honda Accord, but also a new BMW convertible.

Me: She's getting a new car?

Him: No! Not only is getting a new car--she's not selling her old one. She's gonna have two cars like she's on Cribs and shit.

This would elicit far more than a small smile from you, reader, if you had ever had the pleasure of meeting Mark's Aunt Vicki. She's the petite, mild-mannered, never married Head of Pharmacy at University of Tennessee hospital. Most would probably describe her as quiet, intellectual. Even her boob job was discreet, subtle.

I think I may try to convince her to put her BMW on 20s*.

*For those who've had the sorry misfortune of never having seen MTV's Cribs, where the likes of Mariah Carey and O-Town show off their enormously oversized mansions plush with panther skin rugs and marble swimming pools, the celebrities often show off their sports cars and luxury SUVs. And all of these cars sport 20" rims on the tires. The rims are also called 20s or dubs. And knowing is half the battle.

S-A-TUR-DAY NightSunday, March 31, 2002
12:44 a.m.
I drove home from Chattanooga this morning through unrelenting rain. It was as if the sky's delicate skin had opened up to dump unfathomable amounts of water to the ground below. My purple Aspire looked more like a sci-fi kayak, bobbing along down a highway river.

Luckily though, the weather was just fine in Chattanooga while I was there, and a good time was had by all.

Assorted photos from my holiday, all of which link to a gallery of the pictures I took (27 total).